A Press of Suspects

by Andrew Garve

  Rogers wound a sheet of paper into his typewriter with an air of disgust. “I’m told the Big White Chief is getting peeved about all the prying in the office,” he remarked to no one in particular. “Funny, isn’t it?”

  “What’s funny about it?” asked Katharine.

  “Well, he’s a fine one to object to prying. D’ you know what I’ve been doing all morning? I’ve been trying to persuade the broken-hearted family of a Miss Henrietta Peacock to tell me the full story of why she threw herself over a railway viaduct. Now whose idea was that, I’d like to know?”

  The tone of grievance struck an answering chord in Jessop. “That was Jackson, as a matter of fact,” he said. He was the only one present who had been at morning conference. “Jackson can never forget that he was a contemporary of Northcliffe. I think he’s a hypocrite.” Jessop began to mimic the Assistant Editor’s rather precise manner of speaking. “‘It might be a good idea, Soames, to send one of your young men out on this story. A little human interest is what we need. No intrusion into private grief, of course—just tell him to get the facts!’”

  “I agree it’s shocking,” said Haycock, who had once worked on the old Morning Post and remembered more dignified days. “Still, Jackson’s nothing like as bad as Hind was. He’d have sent you to interview a man on the gallows.”

  Pringle, his voice crumby with charcoal biscuit, said, “There’s such a thing as respect for the dead, old man.”

  Rogers, whose thoughts had been on Miss Peacock, suddenly seemed to become aware of Pringle’s presence. “There’s such a thing as the Crime Reporter doing crime stories,” he said. “I thought suicides were your pigeon, Arthur. Are you on holiday or something?”

  “I’m collaborating on the case,” said Pringle with dignity. “I’ve been asked to stand by.”

  Katharine glanced across at Iredale and they exchanged smiles. Rogers sat back. “What view have you and the inspector formed of the case, Sherlock?”

  “I’m pledged to silence,” said Pringle.

  Haycock looked up from his paper. “It’s an ill wind …” he said. He had never liked Pringle.

  “It’s all very well to sneer, old man,” said Pringle. “If I wanted to, I could tell you things that would make your hair stand on end.”

  Haycock stroked his shiny scalp. “Then you’re wasting your time in the newspaper business.”

  Rogers cackled. “You’re an old twister, Pringle. You don’t know a thing.”

  “I don’t pretend to have solved the case,” said Pringle modestly, “but I have my own convictions about it.”

  “That’s nothing to the convictions you’ll have when the inspector finds out about you,” said Golightly from the sidelines.

  Pringle looked startled. “What’s that?” he squeaked, spattering bits of charcoal biscuit over his teacup.

  “You know, I believe Eric’s got something there,” said Rogers thoughtfully. “Murder for a scoop! Arthur Pringle, first with the news at last. Read all abaht it!”

  Pringle looked round at the circle of amused faces. “I don’t think that’s very funny, old man.”

  “You wouldn’t, if you did it,” said Golightly. “And after all, crime is your profession, Arthur. I dare say your place is bulging with cast-off cyanide if we only knew.”

  “If he did do it,” said Rogers, still as though Pringle weren’t there, “we’ve got to hand it to him—it begins to look like the perfect crime. But with all his training he’d know the snags, of course, like leaving fingerprints on plates and doorhandles and all that stuff.”

  “It’s no joking matter,” said Pringle solemnly. He cast a backward glance at the door and lowered his voice. “We think it’s possible there may be more foul play practically at any moment. One of us in this room may be the next on the list. The poison’s not been found yet, remember.” With gratification he saw that for the moment at any rate he had gained the attention of his audience. “I’m jolly careful what I eat and drink, I can tell you that.”

  Katharine said, “I once knew a man who died from a surfeit of charcoal biscuits. It wasn’t a pretty death.”

  Loud guffaws echoed round the room, and Pringle lapsed into a huffy silence. Golightly, who had not allowed the conversation to distract him from his creative efforts with the coloured inks, got up and hung his finished handiwork on a nail. “How‘s that?” he asked. The illuminated text read: “The hireling scribes of the newspaper press, who daily pawn the dirty linen of their souls for the price of a bottle of sour wine and a cigar.”

  “Who wrote that tripe?” asked Grant from behind his embankment of postcards.

  “Ruskin. Classy, isn’t it? What a prig!” Golightly surveyed the text with pleasure. “I wish someone would give me a cigar,” he said wistfully, walking back to his seat. “Anybody remember Havanas?” As he passed Grant, he picked up a block of about five hundred unexamined postcards and dropped them unemotionally into the waste-paper basket.

  Suddenly the News Room door opened and Soames came in with a newspaper clipping in his hand. He was a great man for clippings—an ardent follower-up of other papers’ stories. He gazed round to see who of his staff was the least engaged and the cover of Life caught his eye. “Oh, Mortimer, the Standard says old Harcourt is resigning at last. You might give him a tinkle.” He grinned at Jessop and Iredale as he passed. “What’s all this—Foreign Room sending observers? It’s nice to be some people, I must say.” The News Room door closed behind him.

  “When the wind’s in the north,” remarked Golightly, “they say you can hear old Soames’s scissors as far away as the Elephant and Castle.”

  “He used to hate clippings when he and I were reporters together,” said Iredale.

  “Ah, change and decay!” observed Rogers sententiously. “Now he’s drunk with power.” The description of the mild, painstaking Soames was so inapt that even Pringle smiled.

  For a few moments there was comparative quiet. Then the restless Golightly walked over to the notice board and stood there studying the Duty List: “Why have they put you on late turn to-morrow, Mortimer? Something special happening?”

  “I’ve got to cover a dinner for Ede,” said Haycock. “He’s the guest of honour at the International League of Editors.”

  “Bad luck, you hireling scribe!”

  “It is rather trying—I hate wearing a dinner jacket in hot weather. It’s a pity some of you young fellows don’t polish up your shorthand—I always get these jobs.” Haycock had been a fine descriptive writer in his day, but nowadays he rarely got a “break”. He went over to a telephone box, grumbling to himself.

  Jessop sat frowning. He was thinking how pleasant it must be to be a guest of honour. Ede was always gadding about, always enjoying himself, always at the centre of things. Some people were born lucky.

  Iredale leaned back, rocking gently on two legs of his chair and watching Katharine. She was sitting still with her fingers on the keyboard of her typewriter, and didn’t seem to be concentrating. “How’s the archery?” he asked her.

  “I wish you’d go away,” said Katharine. “I shall never get this thing finished. I can’t even think of an ‘intro’.”

  “Why not draw a bow at a venture?” said Iredale airily.

  “Smarty! Why not give me a useful suggestion?”

  “Nothing easier,” he said. “How about this? ‘Robin Hood and his Merry Men lived again to-day (Wednesday) when youths and maidens in Lincoln green filled the glades of Sherwood Forest …”’

  “The contest was at Elmer’s End,” said Katharine coldly. “Now I see why they thought it better to send you abroad.”

  “My mind wasn’t entirely on it,” he admitted. “How about a drink when the pubs open?”

  “What, again?”

  “It’s a nice habit to get into.” He prodded tobacco into his big pipe and flung the empty tin on to the desk.

  “Somebody ought to buy you a tobacco pouch,” said Katharine. “Don’t you ever have a birthday?”r />
  “I’ve lost three pouches in a year,” Iredale said. “Now I stick to tins.”

  “You smoke rather a lot, don’t you?”

  “Only an ounce a day. Wonderful stuff, tobacco.” He grinned. “It takes care of all the appetites.”

  Katharine smiled, her eyes on the typewriter. From across the room Rogers called, “I can hear you two whispering. Watch that man, Katharine, he’s a beast with women. He’ll have you in a sarong before you know where you are.”

  “I’d advise you to watch your drink if you’re going out with him,” said Pringle. “One small piece of cyanide …”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” cried Katharine. “Let’s forget cyanide for an hour or two.”

  The News Room door opened again with a bang and Soames bustled in. “There’s a good story at Baldock, Pringle. George Teviot, the artist, has been found murdered. Better get up there right away.”

  Pringle stuffed the charcoal biscuits into his pocket. Baldock, eh?—he ought to be able to make a bit out of a trip up there.

  “That’s torn it,” said Rogers gloomily. “Now poor old Haines will be on his own.” Pringle left the room to the sound of more unseemly mirth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the evening, Edgar Jessop had made his choice and knew whom he was going to kill next. A method had come to him as a revelation during that half-hour in the Reporters’ Room, and the method had suggested the victim. It was, he felt, an appropriate stroke of justice that cyanide which had originally been intended for the liquidation of defenceless creatures should now be used in the same manner to destroy a man who had been put in a position of authority. He was happy about the choice. All that remained was to work out the details.

  The difficulties were formidable, but Jessop took them as a challenge. As he sat in the Foreign Room after supper, his opus temporarily laid aside for this more pressing business, he had no doubt that he would be guided to overcome them. Probably he was the only man who could overcome them. His exhaustive knowledge of office routine and his familiarity with the old building would serve him well.

  He dissected the problem with the patient cunning of the paranoiac. He must get the stuff into position without being seen. He couldn’t do that to-morrow, because there’d be too many vigilant eyes watching. But he couldn’t do it right away either, because if he did the cleaners would find it when they came in the morning. No, the poison must be laid after the cleaners had been, and before the staff began to arrive. It would be necessary, he saw, for him to spend the night in the office. There shouldn’t be any difficulty about that—he had done it plenty of times before. Fortunately he had an old razor in his drawer, so he would be able to make himself presentable after the job was done. Then he would only have to wait and mingle with the incoming staff and once again his identity would be lost in the crowd. That was the plan in broad outline. By the time the boy arrived with the first edition of the paper, Jessop had not only gone over the main plan in his mind but he was satisfied with the details as well. He felt sure he had overlooked nothing.

  The artistic perfection of the scheme gave him real creative pleasure. He would enjoy carrying it out. The confidence of obsession surged through him. The faint misgivings which he had experienced during his talk with Haines were forgotten. It had been unfortunate that Iredale should have interposed himself, unwittingly, between plan and performance on the first occasion, but nothing like that could happen this time. Haines would never get on the right track—he would have nothing at all to go on. Jessop picked up the paper that had just been brought in, and contemptuously scanned the few lines about the progress of the Hind case. The report had dwindled to a couple of sticks. Routine phrases, through which failure stared. The story was as dead as Hind himself. The police wouldn’t admit it, of course, but they had reached the inevitable impasse. How could they hope for anything else, when in the nature of things there were no clues? This time, again, there would be no clues. Only stupid people left clues.

  He folded the paper and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, next to the tin of cyanide. He would read it during the long wait. He found his razor and a battered tube of shaving cream and put them into his dispatch-case, wrapped in a hand-towel. He switched off the tape-machine and stood there for a moment, thinking. Obviously it was impossible for him to have an unbreakable alibi, but it might be helpful if he could contrive to give the impression that he had gone home at the usual time. He strolled along to the Reporters’ Room and found the two night men playing chess with a recklessness which foreshadowed the imminent collapse of both sides. Jessop, who had been an accomplished player himself, watched for a while in silent amusement. When two bare kings faced each other he gave both players a slap on the back and got up. “After that exhibition,” he said, “I think I’m ready for home.” He returned to the Foreign Room. Just as he was putting his key in the door to lock up, the Night News Editor walked by. “Good-night, Charlie,” Jessop said. “If I hear a fire engine I’ll give you a ring!”

  He went downstairs and walked briskly across the lobby to the garage entrance, ignoring the commissionaire who glanced up automatically as he passed near the box. The commissionaires were his only danger, and deliberate confusion seemed to be his best policy. He went through into the garage. His car was sandwiched between Cardew’s Riley and a vintage Morris that had come in during the day. He squeezed past the Riley. At least Cardew wouldn’t be taking up this space much longer! He collected some cigarettes and a pocket torch which he always kept in the car against emergency, and went up through the lobby again and out into Fleet Street, still ignoring the commissionaire. A hundred yards up the street there was an all-night milk bar, and he had a milkshake and bought a packet of sandwiches to take away with him. For a quarter of an hour he strolled up and down in the warm night air. Then he returned to the office. This time the commissionaire, buried in the first edition, barely raised his eyes. By to-morrow or the day after, it was most unlikely that he’d remember whether he’d last seen Jessop going or coming—not that anybody would think it worthwhile to enquire.

  The staircase was round a corner, just out of sight of the box. Instead of going up, Jessop went down. The floor below ground level was a storage basement; the one below that was the old air raid shelter. It was years since Jessop had been down here, but the place seemed to have changed surprisingly little since the blitz. Perhaps they were keeping it intact for the next blitz, he thought sardonically. Even the big black S for shelter and the downward-pointing arrow on the wall had been left untouched. In the shelter itself there was a great deal of junk, the overflow from the floor above, but Jessop found he could remember his way about there as though the bombing had been yesterday. The big, high room was divided into compartments by thick blast walls, and some of the old iron cots with their canvas hammocks were still in position. He would certainly be undisturbed here, unless by rats. He folded his jacket into a rough-and-ready pillow, placed his dispatch-case beneath it, and slipped into the bunk. He would need no covering, for the air was stifling. In any case, he didn’t expect to sleep much. He was about to light a cigarette when it occurred to him that the ash might give him away if the improbable happened and the police ever thought of looking here. He mustn’t take any risks.

  He lay quietly on his back, his hands under his head, as he had done in that very place on hundreds of nights before. How persistent, he reflected, was the faint odour of mustiness, the unique shelter smell. The place must have been thoroughly cleaned at the end of the war, yet after all this time the smell still clung to the canvas, taking him straight back to the nights of bombing. He could remember so vividly the details of that strange, troglodyte existence. It hadn’t all been hideous, of course. There had been laughter and good-fellowship, as well as fear. Everyone had been friendly then, even the people who now despised him. That had been a time when they had needed companionship as well. There was no horror like loneliness.

  He could still remember the joy of washing upstai
rs in cold water after the fetid, nerve-racking night; the acrid, dust-laden air outside, that yet tasted so sweet; the fierce exhilaration at being still alive; the heavenly aroma of coffee and bacon at the A. B. C. across the way. Astonishing how much a stale odour could bring to the mind! With each nostalgic sniff of the musty air he could feel around him again the crowded presence of his colleagues; he could hear the thin whiffle of cards being dealt and re-dealt hour after hour, and the jingle of coins as stakes changed hands, and the infinite variety of snores.

  All the same, terror had predominated. He remembered the sudden tug at the heart as the spotter on the roof gave the “imminent danger” signal on the buzzer for the doubtful benefit of those whose duty had kept them upstairs. He could feel the sudden suspension of talk, the tense waiting, the horrible earth-shock when a heavy bomb hit the ground not far away; the inexpressible relief when the buzzer sounded a reprieve. Worst of all had been the threatening crescendo of approaching explosions as a whole “stick” of bombs straddled the area—first, the barely perceptible distant crump, then the louder menacing boom, then the crash that shook the building and started the lights flickering and caused plaster and mortar to fall from the walls and the roof. The next one was going to be a direct hit … “Wait for it,” someone would say, or, with desperate humour, “I’ll go three spades if I live.” And then the distant boom again, the passing of danger, the chatter of voices and the too-bright laughter.

  Jessop had died a thousand deaths on those nights. He had been torn to bloody charred fragments a thousand times in the agony of his imagination. He had died from water and from gas and from choking sewage effluent; he had lain crushed under beams; he had been buried under tons of debris; he had seen his living body consumed by flames. Up there on warden duty in the lonely corridors, with bombs splashing all around into the sea of fire that was London, he had known the uttermost abyss of fear. But he hadn’t succumbed, he told himself now—he hadn’t failed his colleagues, as Archer had done. He had retained his self-respect—he had shown that he could “take it” with the next man. He had earned, and had a right to expect, the good opinion of the world. So he told himself—so he had long told himself—driving down the hideous unbearable truth into the dark recesses of his subconscious mind, repressing his guilt at the cost of sanity itself.